


and then came your sweet mouth (the spring remix)

by Moves like Jagr (pantsoffdanceoff)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Open Marriage, Unresolved Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 09:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10408746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantsoffdanceoff/pseuds/Moves%20like%20Jagr
Summary: Tyler Seguin shows up at Patrick Sharp's house after the trade deadline, ready to be ridden six ways to Sunday. Things don't go as planned.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dangercupcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangercupcake/gifts).
  * Inspired by [and then came your sweet mouth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5860303) by [dangercupcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangercupcake/pseuds/dangercupcake). 



> Takes place, oh, say, the beginning of March 2017. Title comes from [10-4 by Jacquees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IZ_QY30XA5M).
> 
> Thank you, dangercupcake, for letting me play in your sandbox!

The house is quiet for once, the kids’ stuff all cleaned up and the minivan gone from the driveway. Tyler rings the doorbell anyway. Shooter bays from the other side of the door, Marshall and Cash answer, and before Tyler knows it, he’s got his hands full dealing with overexcited labs.

Naturally, this is when the door opens.

“Well there’s a nice view,” drawls Sharpy.

Tyler peeks over his shoulder. Sharpy’s leaning against the doorframe, his shoulders stretching out his fading Stars t-shirt, his eyes glued firmly on Tyler’s ass.

Tyler gives it a helpful wiggle. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.”

“Uh-huh,” says Sharpy, his lofty air ruined when he has to step aside to let the dogs through. They give his fingers a passing lick in greeting before squeezing past. “Pull the other one. It’s got bells on it.”

Tyler shrugs, eyeing Sharpy’s biceps, barely contained by the cuffs of his shirt as he crosses his arms. No sounds of the kids. “You got me. Why get a foot in the door when you can get two dogs instead?”

Sharpy sighs and rubs a hand across his face. “Segs—”

“Wow, you a talker now?” says Tyler. “And here I was thinking all I needed to do was show up lubed up and ready to go.”

A hand fists in his shirt before Tyler can react and yanks him past the threshold. Tyler grunts as he’s slammed up against the inside of the door, laughing breathlessly as the hand moves up to circle lightly around the base of his throat. “You can press harder.”

Sharpy groans, the other hand dipping into the waistband of his sweats, low enough to brush the dimple at the base of his spine, making him shiver. Sharpy says, slightly breathily, “Are you really—?”

In response, Tyler arches his back. It makes Sharpy’s fingers trail lower, dipping into his crack, still wet with excess lube.

Sharpy sucks in a sharp breath, and suddenly Tyler can’t, the hand around his throat tightening hard enough that he sees stars (ha-ha), made even better when Sharpy slides one thick finger into his hole, and then another, testing how loose he is. He’s so hard he feels lightheaded.

Tyler’s released all of a sudden, gasping as the hands disappear from his throat and his ass. He stumbles a little, right into Sharpy, close enough that he can hear his chest rumble when he says, “Get on the couch.”

Despite the command, he goes easily enough when Tyler tugs at his belt loops, steering him backward towards his own living room. Tyler leans in real close, his stomach still fluttering when he feels the heat radiating off Sharpy’s body, close enough their lips almost brush. He grins and whispers, “Make me.”

Sharpy slots their mouths together.

It’s not a nice kiss. Sharpy bites on Tyler’s lower lip between sucking on his tongue, his fingers digging into Tyler’s back, his thighs. It’s all Tyler can do to hang on, one hand fisted in Sharpy’s hair hard enough he can’t get away.

Tyler lands on the couch so hard he bounces.

Sharpy takes a moment to strip off his t-shirt before joining him, hot skin against—when did his own shirt disappear?—hot skin, pressing him into the leather surface. He can feel Sharpy’s long, hard dick against his hip as he sucks at the tender skin behind Tyler’s ear—not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to make Tyler’s hands scrabble at the waistband of his sweats, only to get them swatted away and replaced by Sharpy’s. His hot eyes pin Tyler in place as he shucks Tyler’s sweats and boxers in one swift motion, drinking in every inch of skin revealed. Tyler’s cock bobs under the attention.

“Like what you see?” says Tyler, throwing his knees wide, and caution to the wind. “I’d look better with your cock in me.”

“Is that what you DM all the girls?” says Sharpy, dryly, his eyes dancing over Tyler’s abs and thighs.

“Mostly a winking emoji works just fine,” says Tyler, combining action and word and tossing in a hair flip for effect.

Which is when his eyes land on the moving boxes.

They’re lined up in an unused corner—not just a few, enough to write off as a Salvation Army donation. The cardboard boxes are stacked two or three tall, labeled in Sharpy's lopsided handwriting. School supplies. Clothes. Gym equipment.

Sharpy sighs. “We can move this to a spare bedroom if you’re weirded out.”

Tyler’s stunned enough that he can’t get a word out. Eaver, Johnny, Korpi, _Jordie_. He knew about the trade talks, sure, and, like everyone else, pretended not to follow the rumor mill. Shit, he’d spent an hour fingering himself open, until he was quivering down to his goddamn pores with both want and relief, thinking of the ‘Congrats, you’re still a Star!’ sex he was going to dish out. And yet...

“Spare bedroom?” Tyler manages to choke out with entirely the right amount of outrage. “I don’t rate the master bedroom anymore?”

There's an ugly feeling knitting together under his rib cage. _Maybe he doesn't want me around anymore. Maybe I've overstayed my welcome. Maybe_ —he packs away the thoughts, tucking them away where the rest of them hide.

Sharpy shoots him a strange look. “That’s probably not the best idea.”

Well, ouch. “You know, if you don’t want me around anymore, I can take a hint.”

Sharpy stiffens. “It’s not—” He can hear the sound of Sharpy’s palm scraping daily across his stubble. “Look, I’m sorry about Jordie, but I’m not really up for holding your hand about it.”

Annoyance flares, bright and hot.

“Shit, and here I was thinking I’d be a good distraction from you comparing yourself to Johnny O.,” says Tyler, aiming for flippant and sending it into the netting instead.

He flushes, but the dogs scramble by, Cash with a chew toy in his mouth and his head tossed proudly, chased by the other two, so Tyler doesn’t realize the silence is stretching until it’s a few seconds too late.

Sharpy looks stunned when Tyler peeks at him.

“Sharps, it was, like, branded across your forehead,” he says.

Sharpy shrugs. “Well, I wasn’t expecting to get called out by you, of all people.”

“I’m an onion, yo,” says Tyler, sliding a hand up Sharpy's chest. He looks good in the dappled light coming through the shades, his skin tanned by the Texan sun, his shoulders broad with mid-season muscle.

Sharpy’s kiss comes with a bonus puff of a laugh. “You make people cry?”

Tyler opens his mouth to retort, which is when Sharpy plunges into his mouth. His tongue strokes slow and gentle across Tyler’s, his hands cupping Tyler’s sides, where—he shivers—a woman’s waist would narrow before flaring out to her hips. He’s seen Sharpy and Abby kiss, in bed, in the kitchen, in the goddamn hallway to the locker room, and wondered what that was like. He might have some idea now.

His feet have been moving on autopilot, but it’s not until he nearly trips over the first step of the staircase that he realizes where they’re headed.

“You sure we can’t just fuck on the staircase?” says Tyler.

Sharpy groans and nips at Tyler’s lower lip. “And if both of us slip and fall, who will be left in the lineup?”

Tyler thinks about it for a second. “Berger.”

“Berger,” repeats Sharpy, long-suffering. He gives Tyler a slap on the ass. “Up you go.”

Tyler goes.

Which doesn’t mean he doesn’t turn around to steal a kiss every few steps, or slip the tips of his fingers under the hem of Sharpy’s jeans, or press his ass against Sharpy’s diamond-hard cock. Fuck, he wants it in him so bad. They’re both so wound up by the time they get to the top that Tyler doesn’t know who reaches for whom first, only that he’s slammed up against the nearest wall, practically sliding along it as he kisses Sharpy frantically.

“Wait, wait,” Tyler gasps, shuddering as Sharpy bites his collarbone. “Wrong way.”

The hall to the guest bedroom practically lengthens as he stares at it, Sharpy's hot, damp breath puffing against the junction of Tyler’s neck and shoulder. His knees might actually give out if Sharpy lets him go.

“Fuck it,” says Sharpy and herds Tyler backward into the master bedroom.

He’s hustled onto the bed and stripped of his sweats, and as he opens his mouth, Sharpy dives back in, catching his lips between his own every time Tyler tries to break away for air, until he’s dizzy with kissing.

“Jesus Christ,” says Tyler, when he finally manages a full lungful, “Front or back?”

“Whichever one keeps you from mentioning the goddamn boxes,” says Sharpy, fervently. There’s a crinkle of foil and then he’s gloved up.

If Tyler thought there had been a lot of boxes in the living room, well. Here, though, they’re not neatly stacked, but scattered across the floor, some of the boxes clearly reopened, dresses and jeans spilling down the cardboard flaps.

“Wanted a change of scenery?” says Tyler, instead, because he’s biologically incapable of not bringing it up.

Sharpy winces as he climbs on the bed. “It’s not about what I want.”

The sentence is so carefully free of inflection it practically makes Tyler’s decision for him. “On your back. I want to ride your dick.”

“Romance me more, Mr. Casanova,” says Sharpy, but goes easily enough where Tyler arranges him, careful not to jostle his knee. “You going to admire it all day or sit on it?”

“It is a nice dick,” says Tyler, finally sinking down on it, warm and heavy and stretching him better than even his favorite dildo. He could get addicted.

“What about the asshole attached to it?” says Sharpy.

“Eh,” says Tyler, and then laughs when Sharpy flicks his hip. He sucks in a sharp breath as he rises up on his knees, Sharpy’s dick dragging just right against his inner walls. “Could stand to help out a little.”

Sharpy’s hands fit around his hips and pull sharply, the wet slap as he bottoms out ringing loud in the quiet bedroom. Tyler’s knees turn to jello. It’s not at all what Tyler was asking for, but it’s so good that he doesn’t care.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” says Sharpy, tugging Tyler against him in short, sharp thrusts. It takes a couple strokes for Tyler to get his knees under him, but when he does, it feels like his hips are moving on their own, chasing the white hot pleasure without any input from his brain. “Riding dick like a pro. Jesus, your ass is just greedy for it, squeezing my cock like a vice.”

Tyler adds a swivel to his stroke, just to feel Sharpy’s fingers tighten until they’re leaving fingerprint bruises down his hipbones. “Could do this forever—oh fuck, right there—make a clone of your dick and fuck myself on it all day, even when you’re not around.”

Sharpy’s hands are like a vice. “When I’m not around?”

Tyler whimpers, half turned the fuck on by the show of strength, half dying to come. He tries to wrap a hand around his cock, only for Sharpy to growl, “Leave it. What do you mean, when I’m not around?”

“Am I allowed to talk about the boxes now?” says Tyler.

Sharpy’s grinds Tyler’s hips in a flat circle around his cock, dragging it hard against his inner walls, lighting him up from the inside when it jostles his prostate—all stretch and no friction.

“The first time I was traded,” says Sharpy conversationally, like he wasn’t making Tyler desperate for more. “It came completely out of the blue. You know how it is. No warning, no prep, just two days to move halfway across the country and fit into a new system.”

The relentless pressure’s not enough to make Tyler come, but it’s apparently enough to drive him insane, happy to let Sharpy grind lazily in him while his own hands are digging bruises into his own thighs.

“The second time I was traded,” says Sharpy, “I had more time to pack, but I also knew the signs that it was coming. We were prepared.”

Tyler’s going to die of blue balls. “Sharpy, touch me,” he says.

“How come you never call me Patrick?” says Sharpy, giving Tyler’s wet cock a single stroke from root to tip.

Tyler could scream in frustration. “The fuck does that have to do with anything?”

“I've got all my baggage hanging out to see,” says Sharpy, his fingertips barely ghosting up and down Tyler’s shaft, “But you, where do you hide yours?”

A thumb sweeps across his cheek, surprisingly wet, and presses against his lips. Tyler sucks it into his mouth, tasting salt, swirling his tongue around it like the cock he suddenly wants in his mouth too. Too bad he’s bouncing on it already, twisting his hips so the tip glances his prostate, both on the way in and the way out.

“I'd say up my ass, but you're halfway to my throat,” says Tyler around the thumb in his mouth, chasing after it as Sharpy withdraws. “You want me to call you Patrick?”

Shar-Patrick groans and yanks at Tyler’s hips harder.

He could come like this, Tyler realizes, cock slapping against Patrick’s abs, his hole fluttering around Patrick’s thick cock. He reaches up to play with his own nipples, pinching and pulling the sore peaks.

“That wasn't so hard, was it?” says Patrick.

“I'll keep calling you that if you’re around after—” He gasps, the angle changing as his knees slide a little. “After July 1st.”

Patrick’s breathing is coming in gusting shudders like it does every time he’s about to come. “Is this—fuck, fuck, ah—a new rule?”

“Someone once said that—” Oh fuck, oh fuck. “That new teams get new traditions.”

His toes are curling so hard they’re going to cramp, sweat is rolling down his back, but he can practically feel the orgasm building in his _teeth_. He’s so close, so close.

“We’re not a new fucking team,” says Patrick through his hitching gasps.

“We were just—fuck, don't stop—starting to get everyone back,” says Tyler, “The fuck we aren’t.”

Patrick makes a choked off sound, halfway between a laugh and something else, tightening up his abs just enough that Tyler’s cock slides against it just right. He’s coming before he knows it, white-hot pleasure burning him from the inside out, wiping out everything else.

* * *

There’s a persistent poking at his ribs. Tyler grunts and rolls over.

“Oh thank fuck, I can finally breathe,” says Sharpy.

“The romance is dead,” says Tyler, flinging an arm over his eyes.

The light has shifted, enough that he’d probably been out for a while. Tyler stretches and winces at the dried cum pulling at his body hair and his general soreness, some from fucking, but mostly from the rigors of the regular season.

“I’ll let you have first shower if you help me unpack,” says Sharpy.

Tyler says, “Oh sure, that’s what you really keep me around for.”


End file.
